


except for the way a traveler knows a traveler

by wintercreek



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Doyle
Genre: Amnesia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-05
Updated: 2009-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-05 17:14:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintercreek/pseuds/wintercreek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the most peculiar thing: I don't know how I came to be in this room, or who this mustached fellow is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	except for the way a traveler knows a traveler

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed and subject to inaccuracies in Victoriana and period medical practices. Caused by repetition of Hem's "Pacific Street," which is apparently fixed in my mind as the amnesia love song.

It is the most peculiar thing: I don't know how I came to be in this room, or who this mustached fellow is. I have a jarring headache, no doubt due to the work of the unconscious man on the floor in front of me. His cane has blood on the end; the tender place at the back of my skull is tacky with blood as well.

"- all right, old boy?" The mustached fellow is peering at me, concerned.

Sitting up, I shake my head. "I'm sorry?"

"I said, are you all right? He dealt you quite a blow, Holmes. I am sorry I wasn't able to intercept him in time."

I wave him off. "I'm sure you did what you could. Now, if you would be so good as to answer a few questions for me?"

He narrows his eyes. "Questions, Holmes?"

"Yes, there's one now. Who, precisely, is Holmes? I? And who are you, for that matter?" It's getting harder to concentrate past the throbbing.

"Oh dear." Mustache passes a hand over his face and in the moment we lose our eye contact I find myself adrift, almost panicked. Ridiculous. At least I may have ascertained that Mustache is of importance to me - unless, that is, I have attached importance to him only in this unsettling situation. There is nothing for it; I need more data.

When Mustache drops his hand and looks me in the eyes again, he's calm and purposeful in a way that speaks of long practice. A doctor, most likely. I feel a rush of triumph as he speaks and says, "I am Dr. John Watson, your partner, biographer and fellow-lodger. You are Sherlock Holmes, the world's only independent consulting detective. And I suggest, dear fellow, that we repair to our lodgings to determine what might be done for the amnesia from which you are evidently suffering." The small lines about his eyes suggest that he is more concerned than he lets on.

"Certainly," I agree. "And what shall we do about this man?"

Watson groans. "I'd nearly forgotten about him. I shall fetch Lestrade to deal with him. Holmes, would you rather - that is, shall I keep from Lestrade - oh, dash it all." He leaves the room abruptly and calls for the aforementioned Lestrade. When a Scotland Yard detective and two bobbies take custody of the unfortunate fellow, Watson and I take our leave.

***

While my head no longer knows where I am or where I'm going, my feet still do. Watson is trying to steer us somewhere, unobtrusively, but in his distraction he chooses turnings that I, apparently, would not: he goes left, I go right, and he hurries after me mumbling, "Of course, of course."

I am rather bemused by the whole situation, or would be were it not for the unsettling blanks in my memory which ought to be populated by the experiences of my lifetime.

Our walk ends in a flat on Baker Street, one with a cozy if cluttered sitting room. Watson waves me toward the settee and goes in search of his bag and I, trying an experiment, fix my attention on what I can deduce of my probable self from the room and from my unconscious actions. I bring my mind back to attention and find that I have removed my shoes and frock coat, donned a dressing gown, and seated myself in a rather comfortable armchair near the fire. Indeed, "curled" might be a better term than "seated" - I am evidently a man who prefers to tuck his feet under him rather than sit flat-footed and straight-backed. I wonder if this compact pose is a manifestation of some insecurity brought on by my amnesia or a habitual preference.

Watson is cleaning the back of my head with something astringent; I clench my teeth against the sting and wait for him to finish. "Would you tolerate a bandage, Holmes? I don't think this will require stitches, but it might be best wrapped."

"Whatever you think best, Doctor." Judging by the phrasing of his question and the subtle widening of his eyes at this response, I hypothesize that my normal self is not an agreeable patient. In fact, it would seem that my normal self is quite the eccentric. Somehow I cannot picture the good doctor firing a revolver indoors, but one of us must have done so repeatedly to produce the letters marked upon the wall.

One of us plays the violin as well, judging from the instrument on the table in the corner. It looks to be a fine one, possibly a Strad , although how I should have the capacity to determine this is a mystery to me. I cannot decide whether I hope that it is the doctor's violin, and thus that he might be compelled to play for me, or that it is mine and that I might remember how to play were it in my hands.

Watson follows my line of sight and crosses the room to the violin, bringing it back and placing it in my hands along with its bow. "It's yours, Holmes. Do you - Can you recall how to play it?" He furrows his brow as he takes the chair across from me. Something troubling must be showing on my face.

I uncoil myself and close my eyes, thinking of the passing strangeness of this all. When I open them again, the violin is tucked beneath my chin and my left hand is curled around the neck, my right hand balancing the bow lightly in my fingers. It is almost too much to hope for, but I try to recall a piece. I cannot. "It's no use, Watson. I have retained some type of muscle memory, and most of the factual information I have absorbed, but actions requiring conscious intent are beyond me at present." I lay the beautiful instrument down on the nearest table and seat myself again, noting detachedly that I have drawn my knees up to my chin.

Watson nods. "That seems to be fairly typical, from what I have read of this kind of memory loss. We shall just have to hope that your recall returns to you in time; I know of no techniques to force its return."

We sit in silence. Watson stirs up the fire and settles in his chair, his eyes straying often to my hands. I wonder what it is that I am meant to be doing with them, what habitual gesture is denied me by the very fact of my craving for it. I am not a patient man, it seems, for waiting idle like this rankles.

"I have it!" Watson exclaims. "Holmes, I am your biographer! Perhaps reading about your previous cases will be the jog your memory needs." He disappears briefly and reappears with a sheaf of manuscripts, and as he places them in my hands he cautions, "These are written for the general public, so I've glossed over some minor details. Still, they are a starting point."

They are utterly unfamiliar. Interesting stories, albeit opaquely told - there is little way to follow the deductions of the detective in them, my detections, with the paltry detail provided by Watson's narration - but I am unable to conjure up any of my own corresponding memories. I have read five manuscripts when Watson's touch upon my wrist breaks my concentration. He looks concerned, as he has for the duration of this debacle and for the length of my recollections, and also disappointed, perhaps? I cannot say. I follow his gaze down to my hand and discover that I have been chewing my thumb nail while reading. Not my normal habit, it would appear.

Despair crests over me like a wave and I close my eyes. I cannot be destined to remain a stranger to myself, I simply refuse to do so, and yet I wonder if my refusal or capitulation will have any effect on what comes of this situation. My best results thus far have been obtained not through concentration and effort but through mindless rote behavior. Vexing.

When I open my eyes, Watson is perched upon the arm of my chair and gazing sightlessly into the fire. I rise and reach for my coat and shoes. "Watson, let us walk. This idleness earns us nothing, and perhaps by occupying my body I shall be able to jar lose the misplaced pieces of my memory." Despite the early hour, Watson wordlessly dons his bowler hat and great coat and follows me down the stairs. I count seventeen steps and wish, fruitlessly, fleetingly, that I could recall having counted them before.

***

Watson follows my lead throughout London as I alternately engage and disengage my mind. My feet know these streets but I do not know the significance of the locations at which they pause. Finally, the first dawn light paling the sky between the roofs, I stop on another unknown corner. My shoulders slump, my head hangs. I do not wish to know what Watson sees on my face. I cannot help but look at his expression, though, and see there a speculative look.

"Holmes, close your eyes a moment." He seems to have an idea and, as I am willing to try anything, I obey him.

London is waking up around us, servants stirring in the houses and the first few carts and cabs passing along the streets. Watson takes my arm and leads me down half a block and into what I somehow know is a narrow alley. I wonder what purpose this alley has served in the past, that I should know its distance from the corner. A hiding place, an ambush, an observation post? My mind is full of Watson's tales.

I can hear Watson breathing beside me and I reach out with my free arm, the body mimicking the mind, until Watson captures my questing hand. We are facing each other now - his breath ghosts over my face, warm in the cold air, and he holds me by the elbows. I feel I should be surprised when he presses his forehead to mine. I am not; I feel rather a sense of contentment, a grounding. Curious. I examine the feeling, leaving my body to move as it will in the hope that it will reveal more of myself to me. Watson's nose brushes mine for a moment and then there are lips, Watson's lips, warm upon my own.

It is natural to open my mouth to him, to slide my tongue forward, to press my body against the solidity of my Watson. He releases my elbows and slides one hand to the small of my back, the other to my neck where it rests lightly below my bandaged head wound. I note that I have wrapped my arms around Watson's waist. This has the feel of long practice. My lost self is apparently an invert, and one entangled with the good doctor.

When we part I open my eyes only to close them immediately. It is too painful to read the naked hope on Watson's countenance. "Really, Watson," I scold. "Such goings-on so near a public thoroughfare. I haven't known you to act so rashly since-" I break off and my eyes fly open again, wonderingly. "Since we last kissed in this very alleyway," I murmur.

My friend is beaming at me. "And when might that have been?" he asks.

"Yes, yes, you have cured me Watson. We were last in this alleyway following some rather unpleasant pursuit by a group of ruffians whose employer requested that we be dissuaded from further investigation by physical means. As I recall, I was convinced that you had been grievously harmed in the scuffle which preceded our flight while you had similar fears regarding my well-being. It was here that we sought refuge and, in the discovery that both our persons were more or less unharmed, expressed our relief in the manner you have just caused us to replicate." I pause to peer at his delighted face. "You are going to be insufferable now, aren't you?"

"Oh, hardly," he replies. "This is hardly a method I can write up for my colleagues to review. I think we'll keep this trick between us." So softly I nearly miss it, he adds, "And pray we never need use it again."

"I am sorry, old boy," I whisper. "As wretched a night as this has been for me, it must have been far more harrowing for you."

Watson slips an arm through mine and leads us back out of the alley and toward Baker Street. "My dear Holmes. Think nothing of it. In the context of our past escapades, I should say that this one was rather tame." His raised eyebrows dare me to challenge him.

I laugh a little, silently, and brush my shoulder against his. "I defer to my Boswell," I tell him, "without whom I should surely be lost."

He contemplates my words, the corners of his eyes crinkling, until I break in again. "And now, Watson, let us have a little competition to occupy us on our constitutional. That lad there on the corner, what do you make out is his occupation?"

Watson shakes his head. "I cannot imagine how one would determine that," he laughs. "Do enlighten me."

"Watson, Watson, Watson," I chide. "He is clearly a newsboy. Observe the darkened portions of his hands - printer's ink on the pads of his fingers. Come now, I shall give you an easy one: pray tell me the mission of that gentleman, two blocks up."

Watson answers not a single one of my questions, and he never lets go of my arm. May this never cease to be so.


End file.
